


Routine Maintenance

by daasgrrl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gender or Sex Swap, PWP, Sibling Incest, female!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-20
Updated: 2013-09-20
Packaged: 2017-12-27 04:19:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/974246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daasgrrl/pseuds/daasgrrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s something of a cliché that sex makes people stupid, but in Sherlock’s personal experience the lack of it can be far more detrimental to the work. Genderswap!AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	Routine Maintenance

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to **evila_elf** for beta'ing way, way out of her division.
> 
> Apparently there's a first time for everything, including genderswap. I was actually trying to write something relatively plotty and smut-free when my brain turned on me and decided _this_ fic would be a much better idea. I'm not sure I want to know what that says.

“You’re late,” Sherlock complains.

She’s sprawled on top of the hotel bed, still fully clothed, although the silk blouse rubs directly against the peaks of her breasts as she stretches her arms up over her head. Dark ringlets, usually bound well back, fan out around her, as does her coat, its dark red lining a startling contrast to the navy-blue wool. A wisp of a blue cashmere scarf is wrapped around her neck. Mycroft is busy setting his umbrella and briefcase down beside the desk and barely appears to notice, damn him.

“I was occupied with the Swedish Minister for Trade. Should I have asked her to join us?”

“Only if she came with her own hex key.”

“Very droll. I’m sure she’s never heard that one before.”

Red-soled shoes with deadly heels threaten to tear holes in the sheets as Sherlock scrabbles off the bed. She stalks towards Mycroft, and with the added height she’s able to look him straight in the eyes as she grabs the edges of his jacket.

“Come _on_ , Mycroft.”

She tilts her head, finding his mouth with her own and plunges in greedily, impatient as ever. Mycroft’s incipient sigh turns into a gasp, and he lets her have her way for a moment, opening up under the insistent press of her tongue. Then he pulls away and licks his lips thoughtfully. He appears to regard her properly for the first time.

“Lipstick, Sherlock? Is this a special occasion?”

“I was bored waiting for _so long_. I had to do _something_.”

“And the suspender belt too, I see. I hardly dare ask what it is you want this time.”

“Not _much_ ,” she says, helping him off with his jacket and throwing it onto an armchair. Her fingers follow up with the buttons of his waistcoat. “Just a little bit of surveillance footage – the street outside the HSBC at 8 Victoria, 7 to 11 pm last Thursday. And the mobile phone records for Roger Hannaford, he’s an employee. Possibly ex-employee. And…” she trails off and looks past his shoulder, distracted. “Oh, and perhaps you could get me into that Charity Ball at Clarence House next week? With John, of course.”

He smiles, slipping a hand along the outside of her thigh, past the edge of the stocking and up under her skirt. “Of course.”

Her breath hisses out in exasperation as she moves his hand away to wrestle off the waistcoat and moves on to loosening his tie. “This is ridiculous. Undressing you is more complicated than breaking into a government institution.”

“I’m not even going to ask which one.”

“Good, because I’m not about to tell you.” She loses interest after the tie and tries to lead Mycroft towards the bed, but he stands firm, immovable. One of his hands rests on the substantial curve of her arse, stroking it gently, while he nuzzles into her neck with a low sound of appreciation. She’d dabbed some perfume in the hollow of her throat while getting dressed – horribly expensive stuff Mycroft had once given her and hence presumably approved of.

“Oh, that is nice,” he murmurs. The scarf is in his way, so he undoes it and sets it aside reverently.

“It’s appalling. Imagine trying to smell anything amiss on a corpse while wearing _that_.”

“Thank you, I’ll pass.”

“Will you stop sniffing, and get on with… oh for heaven’s sake.”

She fumbles with his braces and trousers, pushing away his hands when he tries to interfere. There’s not nearly enough there to satisfy her, so she kicks off the shoes and sinks to her knees on the plush patterned carpet. Mycroft’s cock immediately twitches and begins to thicken against the blade of her tongue. He groans, and his fingers tangle in the curls of her hair, pulling gently, the pain just enough to keep her focused. The musk of him fills her mouth, seeps into the back of her nose, pleasantly dispelling the cloying, alien scent.

Having Mycroft like this is a good stop-gap, but it’s not enough, does nothing to assuage the hollowness in the pit of her stomach, the ache between her thighs. When she stands again, kissing Mycroft long and deep, he finally follows her to the edge of the bed. There she strips off her coat and dives back onto the sheets, spreading her legs invitingly as Mycroft deals with his clothes. He’s still wearing the unbuttoned shirt when he climbs on top of her, but nothing else. The tails of it rustle softly against her skirt where it clings to her thighs.

She’s already anticipating the sweet slide of him inside her when he starts kissing her _again_ , as though they hadn’t done quite enough of that already.

“Mycroft…” she protests, when he gives her the chance.

“I like you like this.”

She snarls at him as he chuckles, and continues on as though he could do this all day. If only he wasn’t so exactly _right_ , as though born into the world seven years earlier just to be here for her, precisely what she wants and needs, in all the ways that matter.

If only he didn’t know it.

His hand cups the slight span of her breast easily, his fingers sliding across the violet silk to toy with a nipple through the fabric. Her breath quickens again. Such clever, delicate hands, as though he were a poet or painter rather than a soulless, heartless bureaucrat. They work at the buttons of her blouse with unbearable slowness, taking her apart, laying her bare, and when his mouth comes down hot and wet around her breast she curses him.

It should be enough that she comes to _him_ at times like these, that he’s the only one in the world who gets to see her like this, open and desperate and wanting. Yet he always has to torment her as well, make her beg. It’s infuriating that it should be this way – sex is nothing but a ridiculous, messy distraction, and yet sometimes it seems as though there’s room in her brain for little else.

If only her body would let her _concentrate_.

“Please,” she says.

“Hush.”

His mouth teases her once more, his tongue flicking at a nipple, but this time he takes pity on her and his hand presses down firmly against her crotch, giving her something to rub herself against. If she’d worn panties they’d have been soaked through already, but instead the slickness of her slides against the lining of her skirt as she pushes up against the solidity of his palm, frantic. The sparks of pleasure ripple through her in bursts, leaving her thoughts a tangled mess in their wake. It’s intolerable.

“Oh, god,” she breathes, aroused and exasperated in equal measure. She wants to retaliate, to wrap her hand around his cock and show him how it feels, but he’s too far down the bed, out of reach. He shifts once more, and then his hands are pushing her skirt up even further. She shivers as his fingers trail over her mound, rubbing back and forth before pushing deeper, and _oh_. They make slow, tantalising thrusts inside her, and she raises her hips desperately to meet them, but it’s not _enough_. She falls back against the bed, trying to still her movements, regain some semblance of dignity.

“Breathe, Sherlock.”

Mycroft withdraws his fingers from her, and she moans unthinkingly at their loss. He touches their tips to his mouth and sucks on them thoughtfully, savouring the taste of her.

“You _bastard_ ,” she manages, and that epithet’s nowhere enough either, not with the amused fondness lurking in his eyes, the smugness that seeps from his very pores, mingling with that stupid scent. She grabs him by the arms and pulls him towards her – she’s strong, and under more reasonable circumstances could probably best him in a fair fight – until they’re face-to-face again, and she reaches for him at last.

Her knees are bent, the skirt hiked up high around her hips, and her thighs are slick as she holds Mycroft’s cock in her hand, tries to guide him _there_ , and yet he continues to toy with her. His position on top effectively restricts her movements, and he only ends up sliding, rocking hard against her, which would god, almost, _almost_ do, only she’s damned if she’ll let him get away with it.

“If you don’t fuck me _right now_ I’ll kill you.”

“You do have the most charming bedroom manner.”

Oh god, for fuck’s sake, there, _finally_ , and she groans in satisfaction as he slides home at last, wriggling shamelessly to ensure he’s as far inside her as he can go. He sighs deeply, as though she’s forced all the air from his lungs, and his eyes drift closed for a moment. It’s a reminder that for all his steely self-control he truly desires this too, desires her. She wraps her legs tightly about him, stockings whispering against his spine, and begins kissing him again, softly, the way he likes best.

“Mycroft, oh, oh, yes…” she murmurs, half-mocking, half-sincere; she doesn’t know where one ends and the other begins any more.

He remains tactfully quiet, but the curve of a smile lingers at the corner of his mouth. She doesn’t hate him for it any more. He rocks into her, short, shallow thrusts that let her angle herself against him, and it’s _perfect_ , every brush against her clit fuelling the tension inside her until she can hardly bear it. In a passing moment of clarity she becomes aware that he’s panting softly above her, still holding himself back, and she’s instantly sharp, annoyed again.

“Oh, do come _on_.”

The half-smile on Mycroft’s face abruptly fades as he responds with a rough, hard thrust that makes her cry out in pleasure and pain and exhilaration.

“Yes, better,” she urges, and as his movements quicken, deepen, she surrenders to him, to sensation. It’s this she yearns for, more than anything, the urgent rush towards pleasure followed by the long moments of blankness, after which she trusts her focus will return, sharper than ever. “Please, I need this, My, please.”

She moans and arches as he bites down softly into the curve of her neck, only enough to hurt, not to mark. His fingers pinch hard at a nipple; once, then again, and then her entire body shudders as the orgasm sweeps through her, better than any artificial rush. She cries out in short sobbing gasps and clings to the solidity of Mycroft’s back, as though terrified of losing herself in the static. He’s still thrusting into her, faster and harder, as his composure finally shatters.

“Sherlock, god, oh my love…”

He groans and convulses against her as her cries fade softly into whimpers. She lies there panting, Mycroft’s weight pressing down upon her, and waits in the blessed stillness for her thoughts to coalesce once more. There’s much she’s still missing, surely. The Clarence House Ball must be related to Hannaford’s disappearance, but _how_? It’s set down in his diary, written in his own hand, confirmed with his secretary, but the tickets themselves are nowhere to be found, in his office or at home. There’s something else wrong there, not the wife, boring, and he’s not having an affair with the secretary, which makes for a nice change.

Hannaford’s boss, though. Might be worth another look. Uncomfortable, shifty, although not overly anxious. Sherlock didn’t think to check _his_ diary, not at the time. Oversight. Difficult to think with her treacherous hormones fuelling this sudden and inconvenient spell of desire. It’s something of a cliché that sex makes people stupid, but in Sherlock’s personal experience the lack of it can be far more detrimental to the work. Checking the boss’ diary will arouse suspicion if he’s involved, best to pay another visit after hours, John will enjoy that…

She opens her eyes to find Mycroft lying on his side, turned towards her, that ridiculous softness lingering in his eyes. Still, what would she do without him? The fleeting bout of sentiment earns him a kiss before she springs out of the bed, begins putting herself to rights.

“Don’t forget about the surveillance footage,” she says, smoothing down her unruly hair with her hands, pulling it back into a ponytail. “And the rest of it.”

“Have I ever? The camera footage and phone records tomorrow, but the tickets will take a little longer.”

“Tomorrow _morning_.” She shrugs on the coat, her phone and keys jangling in the pockets, and slips the heels back on. At least she’ll only have to make it down to street level in them and then straight into a taxi. Mycroft is propped up on an elbow, apparently not in any rush at all.

“I’m surprised it can wait as long as that. Busy night ahead?”

“Very likely.”

“Do try not to get yourself killed. You know I’d only have to answer for it.”

It’s really none of his business, but the furrowed lines of his brow make her relent. “Not that kind of busy. The tedious kind.”

“Good.”

By this time Mycroft has swung his legs over the side of the bed, and is slowly rebuttoning his shirt. It looks like he has a good hour’s work ahead of him just getting dressed again, and she has things to be getting on with. He really has been very helpful today, though, so she leaves her scarf behind, draped over the back of a chair. The scent has ruined it, anyway.

“So glad you could make it,” she says, turning back towards him, and if her tone is sarcastic, her words are sincere.

“Until next time, then, my dear sister.”

“I’ll text you,” she promises, flashing him a hint of a smile, and is gone.


End file.
